Theirs
by Atheniandream
Summary: Summary: Donna is drunk. And Harvey remembers a few important details.


_Just a little something to work up to my big Chapter updates for LIFE and The Arrangement. Goes out to all the Darvey shippers losing hope. Screw em, we know how it really goes ;-)_

Summary: Donna's Drunk. And Harvey remembers a few important details.

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 **THEIRS 1/1**

 **By Atheniandream/Redwineonavanillaskye**

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Today has been rather... _eventful_ for Harvey Specter.

He finally came to the realisation that Donna Paulsen needed to be _his_. **Immediately** _._

It started with a fight. And then a declaration. To which, naturally, Donna had reacted by reaching for the largest wine glass that she had at her disposal. _Because, uncharacteristically, but rather impulsively, this time, Harvey Specter hadn't been able to stop himself_. He had been so violently overcome with emotion-laden words for her, and for them, and an understanding of it all, that he had silenced her for a full _thirty five minutes_.

 _Initially._

It was an anomaly.

He had spoken of everything. _His mother. His father. The Affair_. Scottie. His fears. His 'keeping' of her and the consuming revelation that he had been losing her, nay, _lost her,_ and how it had pushed him to act, finally, after all these years.

She had nodded robotically through two bottles of medium priced wine - most of which she'd drank through silently and single-handedly - all while, much to her shock, he elaborated _further_.

Elaborated, on how he _couldn't lose her again_. How he wanted _everything_ from their relationship that she could give him, and then in spades and more. With not a factor left out, as he had rehearsed in his head countless times and talked through with Paula, his now ex-therapist, repeatedly for over a week leading up to this very moment.

When he asked for _her_ thoughts, after everything he had finally laid out on the metaphorical table, she had grabbed for the wine once more, all at once confronted with her own emotional inadequacies, that still seemed to streak against her overly-invested nature in this particular man.

So, he... _continued to talk_. To bridge the gap. To coax the information out of her, question by simply laid question.

Because, _after all_ , this had been the third time that _she_ , Donna Paulsen, had been put in a similar situation. So, it was only natural that she'd be a little reserved in giving everything to the moment,

To them.

Regardless of how different it all looked this time around.

It was then,

That he _kissed_ her.

Slowly, and thoroughly, and not a corner missed out.

That, oddly, had her talking. _A lot._

Until she was suddenly a little drunk.

And kissing him back.

 _Really_ kissing him. _Drunkenly so_.

 _Very_ drunkenly, for a woman with a supposedly strong constitution.

Later, she would put it down to nerves. Pure, unabashed, wobbling on the top of a wild horse kind of nerves.

"Okay, Beautiful woman. Time for bed." Harvey calls, his voice crooning with a sense of authority and finality to the evening.

"I don't wanna go to sleep." She says in protest, her mouth curling into a devious smile, then, as she bends heavily against his weight.

He had decided about fifteen minutes ago that it was highly likely that she would pass out at some point soon, when he watched her fluttering eyes start to glaze over like they were filled with stars.

"Well, I'm afraid you're not much good for anything else right now." He offers, a supportive smile on his face, as his hands slide around her waist to guide her to his bedroom.

"That's hurtful." She scorns rather comically, looking wounded as she stumbles a touch against his own footing. His hands catch her, just in time.

She had ended up at his place hours ago.

 _Waiting for him_ , after their fight.

The night hadn't meant to be like this.

Even after he finally succumbed to telling her, as it stood on the apex of defining them both separately and together in this suddenly perfect strangeness.

"Well, it's just that I don't want to start making love to a half-conscious woman one moment...and then find that she's... _rather unconscious_ moments later." He smirks, propping her up until she folds against him; glittering black sequins against his charcoal covered cotton.

"Spoilsport." She remarks tiredly, leaning into him then. Her chin grazes his chest in a way that makes his lips tingle.

He runs a hand through her hair, causing her to straighten up against her slumped position.

"Come on, you. You've had a _big_ day." He encourages with a smirk, leading her through the doorway.

"After the _ **'I love you.'**_?" She asks him plainly, spinning on a heel, her hands sliding around his shoulders in one fluid and oddly lucid motion.

If he hadn't have clamped his hands around her waist in time, she'd most likely be on the floor, having dragged him with her.

"Maybe even before that." He adds sarcastically, guiding her to the bed with a covering smile.

She doesn't even catch it, the edge in his voice. That, nor the fact that she's even on his bed in the first place. That in and of itself is an anomaly.

His head clears then. _She's far too drunk to be here,_ he thinks to himself _._

Far too drunk from all the things he's _finally_ been able to say to her.

Then again...She never could handle his true emotions.

Throughout the course of the night, as wine had replaced her armour, a softer, more honest side had started to peek out. One that wrought of anxiety and fears and nervousness.

 _He couldn't love her more_ , for that simple fact.

He cursed himself, partly for enjoying the concept. _Her,_ _ **weak**_. _Him,_ _ **satisfied and protective**_.

But he figured...at least they were still adapting to one another.

Regardless of their positions, they were always equal. Always measured and even, one against the other.

He smirks then, when she throws her hands above her head and onto the bed behind her with a notable sense of abandon.

"You okay there?" He asks her.

When she sits up slightly to look at him, the sentiment starts off with confidence, until her smile falls in replacement of a rather honest consideration.

"I'm really drunk...aren't I?" She enquires through a mumble, a slightly bashful tone reaching up to her pinkish cheeks.

" _Worse_ …." He hints good-naturedly. "...than at your sister's wedding." He notes with a smirk, his eyebrow and the two moles above it twitching devilishly.

Her face pinches with distaste at that and the not so savoury memory that rushes to the foggy fore.

 _She had been all tequila and the dashing of her lost adolescent hopes and dreams._

 _He'd nearly slept with her a second time_ _ **back**_ _ **then**_ _._

 _Another bad choice avoided with a clarity that somehow made a better kind of sense, now._

He realises this distinction. Them now, and back then. It would have changed them too much. And he wouldn't have been ready like she'd wanted, no matter how much he had already loved her.

"That bad?" She questions, her face scrunching into a displeased wince at the memory.

"It's good thing it's you," He manages, sliding onto the bed next to her. He barely catches the smile that crosses her face. It seems to stretch for a moment, through her entire body like a sun ray, before it falls into a warm laziness.

For a second they just...lie there. He's watching her - and enjoying the fact - as she watches him right back, with that shy awkward expression he's seen so much lately.

"Hey," He says, observing her tousled hair and softness as a finger reaches out to take a strand of her hair.

"Hey," She replies, a curl of a smile as her own hand creeps across his, brushing over his suddenly limp hand before passing partly along the bed; sliding across his left hip and around the clasp of his belt.

He doesn't need to be told twice, as he rolls towards her, hovering above her in seconds.

He feels twenty-eight again. Excited. Nervous. Like the whole world is about to see him in all his glory.

And she looks almost the same as the first time - minus those bangs. _And how he misses them still to this day…_

She giggles slightly when his hands grab her waist and he yanks her down the length of the bed, right underneath him.

"Right. We need to get this dress off you." He tells her, his expression purposeful.

She narrows her eyes then, an obtuse and spontaneous challenge flashing like a light's just gone on. "You'll be lucky." She counters with eager challenge.

He sits up then, giving her a look. " _Okay_." He relinquishes condescendingly, laying the bait. "You want to get tied up in sequins and wake up in a sweat? _Be my guest_ ," He offers, slowly climbing off of her just to settle the point a little deeper in her wine drenched psyche.

 _She's strangely fast for someone so drunk_ , he thinks, as she grabs at the hook in his belt, pulling him back on top of her. "I might be drunk, but I'm not stupid." She says, in a moment of aroused lucidity.

He smirks, impressed with her ability to intercept and bends down, pressing a hand into the bed on either side of her, so that he has complete control over her drunken unruliness.

"Then, turn over." He commands, his eyes taking on a darkened quality.

He knows there's a enough of an offering to placate her, when in reality, he could never ever take advantage of her like this.

Drunken, emotionally altered, or otherwise.

He's had months of therapy to come to such realisations.

 _ **She's had a 'crash course' two and a half hours.**_ _Despite her usual omniscience, which she seems to have left at the door tonight._

 _Turns out...Harvey Specter's heart - specifically - is Donna Paulsen's very own 'personal blind spot'._

"Fine," She shrugs, turning under his legs - albeit barely - and rests her chin on her crossed arms.

He rolls his eyes, knowing he'll have to adjust her position if he has a hope in hell of getting this dress off of her.

For now, his hands delicately and painstakingly peel her out of the Roberto Cavalli evening gown she has on, a mismatched universe of freckles mapping across her shoulder blades as the faint curve of her spine appears before him.

 _He wants to spend the afternoon here._ The Afternoon...that follows the next morning.

All fifteen or so hours. _ **Just. Like. This.**_

And it's agonising, that she is completely incapable of being part of this precious moment.

But, _he does love her_. **Infinitely**.

And so, with immeasurable feeling comes the patience to match.

"If you find me gone in the morning, then _don'_ come lookin' for me." She potters over the words, trying drunkenly at casual and failing.

 _She's ridiculous._ And on point to tug at his emotions.

He leans in close to her ear, abating the urge to tutt. "If you're gone in the morning, I'm putting out an APB." He tells her, his voice low and slightly seductive in tact. "Now, _Turn back over_." He commands, sitting back up to allow her the room at his request.

It dawns on him that this is a completely ridiculous task, when she moans, her arms suddenly restricted by being attached at both sleeves still.

He has never taken a dress off of a woman who is nearly - and with a growing pace - incapable of sitting up by herself. It's just not his thing. Add to that, a woman that he hasn't touched in years. One that he has just spilled his guts to, and is now - _in her own theatrical way_ \- laying waste to said confession of the heart.

For a moment, he thinks of leaving her in it, and blindly replacing it in the morning no matter what state it's in.

However, the idea of having to wrestle the very heavy beaded dress in bed makes discarding it now, suddenly worth it.

He could... _zip her up. Send her home._

Have them restart again tomorrow and avoid a world of many awkward little moments connected to tonight.

Only, he doesn't want to.

 _She_ is here. And fragile.

And he has silently pledged his being to hers, now.

And so... _the task awaits_.

When she flips onto her back, finally, they are face to face again.

He sighs heavily.

Sober, _she is a Maze._

But Drunk, he can read her like a book he's memorized nearly a thousand times.

"Donna," He placates, watching her flirtatious gaze. "I'm not making love to you like this," He half-throws at her, his hands on his hips, just mildly skirting the silvery-slate waistcoat he still has on at this late hour.

Her face contorts then, snorting at his sudden delicacies. "Oh m' god," She says tiredly. "What are you... _a girl_?" She rolls her eyes, her face judging every inch of him.

His head tilts, unimpressed, as he leans down, very slowly so that there is a pinch of hesitation in her eyes, watching his angular features as they hover a mere centimetre from hers.

" _The best girl you're ever gonna kiss_ ," He fakes the warning, and instead, revels in his mind at throwing her off her game. She swallows thickly for just a second, before her cat like smile appears.

"Oh I duh' know," She purrs then. "I was pretty...experimental n' College." She says, pouting somewhat, despite the slight blur of words.

"Oh... _so the Bertha thing_ …" He plays, smirking. "Still on the table?" He offers, recounting a flirtatious conversation long since left behind but never really forgotten.

She laughs, a sputter in recollection of that important interchange. "Oh kiss me, you damn fool." She says rather impatiently in a drawl of drunken deep southern accent, as she slides her hands around his shoulders.

He tenses then, rolling his eyes, his hands lifting up to cover hers as they hover near his face. He very carefully peels her off of him. "Uh-Uh." He sings, waggling his index finger at her. "We still need to get this dress off of you, first." He reminds her, his smile held with the kind of concentration that comes from dealing with very drunk and beautiful women. And now a combination of the two.

"Fine," She relinquishes after a moment, her arms slapping once again onto the comforter above her head.

He smiles to himself, taken with her sudden compliance and his own small victory and lowers himself so that he can place a quick kiss against her neck, whilst his hands slide the fabric down to her waist, revealing a nude bra that doesn't really match her very pale skin.

"Okay….Donna. Listen to me?" He says to her, trying to catch her unfettered gaze.

"M' Listening." She smiles unevenly.

"No, you're not. You're...staring at... _my crotch_." He says, giving her a stern look.

It's only when he raises a finger in front of her face that her eyes unfocus. "Donna?" enquires, clearing his throat.

"Mmm-Hmm." She nods, the gesture exaggerated by her rather over-pliant state as she tries to focus on said finger.

" _ **Donna**_ ," He repeats, stretching her name out for emphasis as his patience starts to trickle away. "I need you to focus."

"I'm focused, Harvey." She tells him, closing her eyes.

He sighs, at odds between his entertainment and waning lack of patience, whilst at the same time, wondering why she isn't word vomit spewing like he supposed she would, considering the heavy theme of the evening.

He wonders if he's finally run her out of things to say.

Or if it only took him to say certain things just to shut her up for good.

It's a thought that he supposes he'll get an answer too in time, he thinks, as he concentrates on the redhead laid before him.

"Okay...I'm going to pull this god damned dress off of your hips, and I need you to help me. Can you do that?" He asks.

"Gotcha'." She says, nodding blindly.

His eyebrows knit together, as he observes the rather tight dress, and the pair of angular hips that he supposes are going to cause a pretty fuss. As his hands slide in between the fabric and her rather flushed and freckled skin, his fingernails gently scratch against her ribcage.

It takes only a second for her to squirm underneath him, her whole body stiffening. "Ahh, your hands!" She cries, her eyes snapping open wildly. "Staa!"

 _ **A memory floods into his brain like warm oil.**_

 _Her. On her back. Laughing uncontrollably. At him._

 _Him, thoroughly entertained by her….being very, very ticklish._

 _And a hard-on like the Empire State Building._

His smile grows like the Cheshire cat as he looks down at her, retracting his hands for a moment as he continues to stare, watching with a rising pleasure as she frowns at him like a disgruntled four year old.

"What?" He offers, waggling his hands at her. "These are my hands? What's the problem?" He offers innocently, leaning in as his fingers snatch under himself to grab her, nay, poke her deliberately in her ribs, causing a peeling cry to reel out of her as she tries to wriggle out of his grasp.

"Ahh. G'damn it Harvey, _Staa-p it_!" She manages through a caught breath, her eyes flashing an empty warning.

"Stop...what?" He plays, pure enjoyment peeling his smile into a laugh as she squirms underneath his pressing weight.

"Ahhh!" She protests, grabbing for his hands. "M'serious."

"-ly drunk!" He adds, chuckling at her.

It's then that she pouts.

Just a pout. He gathers that at this point in time she's clearly relying on baser instincts rather than her usually lazer-sharp intellect.

It's hard not to cherish her in these moments, that make him less of an idiot in her presence and more of a caregiver, considering her placated state.

" _Look_ ," He cracks with laughter, holding his hands up as he relinquishes for a moment. " _In my defence_ , I barely touched you the first time." He insists.

"Well then...you must jus'," She pauses, a disjointed hiccup breaking her sentence. " _Be good at it_." She scowls, giving him the best warning look she can muster before her eyes slide closed once more. "Either that or I'm just…" She hiccups once more. "Ah-lergic to you." She reasons with herself, before swallowing thickly.

He smirks then, admonishing her.

"Donna...you're _Ticklish_ , is what you are." He tells her.

"Whatever," She mumbles, a round yawn taking over her pink-tinged features before her eyes slide closed for a moment too long.

"Donna?" He offers, frowning at her waning consciousness when she falls silent for the longest moment.

 _This is steadily becoming a pain in the ass task_ , he thinks to himself.

It's then that he hears it.

 _ **The snoring**_.

The rather _loud_ snoring.

Because of course the woman that he's sat on top of has fallen completely asleep underneath him. Mouth agog, and overly relaxed. Despite possibly having the hiccups moments before.

And all, with her dress rolled to the waist and her bra showing like she's a twenty-one year old at Spring Break letting loose and he's a Jock that teeters between getting lucky or going to jail.

He chuckles again, only to himself, rolling his eyes in a room where only the glass walls and wandering New York skyline are paying any attention to him, before looking back at this strange coppery-redhead, with her hair splayed out and goosebumps spiking on her arms.

He sighs then, moving slowly off of her, one knee plotting a position next to her heavily sleeping form.

He huffs at the sight. She's occupying most of the bed. _But, of course she is._ He expects no less from the kind of woman that she is.

Imposing. Full on. Memorable. Difficult.

But he knows one thing... _that dress is not sleeping with him personally_ , he wagers, as he slides off of the bed, before rolling the comforter until the leggy woman is panini-sandwiched between either side of the top cover, leaving the small space of mattress left for him - on his side.

 _Hell_ , he'd take half of his own side over a little margin more on the right side of the bed any day of the week.

After all, it was the closest to the door.

Call him _'Caveman'_ kind of thoughtful…

He wanders out of the room to the lounge, stifling his own yawn and picks a blanket off of the couch. He thanks his lucky stars that they are at his place, where all temperature is regulated, unlike her unpredictable and slightly crotchety-seeming apartment, that looks like heaven but often acts like hell according to her colourful accounts.

When he re-enters his bedroom, he half expects her to have taken over his side completely like some silent spreading eviction.

But much to his surprise, she appears to have turned over and moved somewhat in the process,

 _A little more to_ _her_ _side of the bed_. Therefore, leaving his side...wide open.

It dawns on him, with a worn in and slightly crooked smile that will be hard to shake off long into tomorrow,

That what's been missing from his bed lately,

 _ **Is Her.**_

He pads quietly back to the bed; the memory foam mattress bending a fraction as he slides a hand under his pillow, lying on his left side. His view is a mixture of thick burrito-shaped comforter and fluffy copper tinged hair that seems to trickle towards him like alien ivy. He sighs, his brows knitting together as the realisation sinks in…

Their first night together is _nothing_ like he had planned _nor_ expected.

And she...is _not_ the woman he ever pictured being 'The One'.

But, as it turns out,

He had been far off his estimations of 'the perfect woman'.

The big enchilada. _That important someone to spend his life with._

 _And yet,_

 _Even when she is snoring loudly,_

 _On_ _ her_ _side of the bed,_

 _In a dress he now thoroughly despises and will probably grumble at whenever she wears it,_

 _And even wrapped a little too far away from his touch for his own liking,_

She is still utterly perfect for him.

And finally...his bed, oddly made for two, finally feels like his life, his work and his money always have done.

Like _ **Theirs.**_

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As always please feed the kitty!


End file.
